


Paper Skin, I'm Gonna Love You

by MellytheHun



Series: All is Fair in Love [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Bizarre Fusion Universe I Made Up, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - High School, Always, Angst, Buckle in for Another Enormous Series, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Family Drama, First Meetings, Fluff, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, High School, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sources Cited Always in End Notes, TROPES FOR DAYS, Teen Angst, Teen Ben Solo, Teen Hux, Teen Romance, Teenagers, This AU Got So Out of Hand, Trigger Warnings Are Always In Beginning Notes, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2018-11-19 14:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11315730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: Ben Organa-Solo is an extraordinary person living an ordinary life. He is immensely Force-sensitive, his genuine intrigue and loyalty is hard-earned and shared by very few, but he thinks he's met someone he might like to share it with.Freshly graduated from Officer's School, Infantry Officer Hux joins Ben's very ordinary public school for the end of Ben's senior year - apparently a time between graduating Officer's School and joining the Fleet that Hux's guardian has deemed idle if not spent studying in some form or another.Two roads diverge in the woods and Ben ignores them both, running headlong into the dark forest and all its dark promises.





	1. Crepuscular, Cyanic and Scarlet

**Author's Note:**

> No Trigger Warnings for this chapter!
> 
> It's a new series, yes - if you followed my series Not About Angels, you might be familiar with my ability to elongate literally every and anything. So, here I am again, telling another completely unnecessarily long story.
> 
> I'm working on a billion fics right now and taking 6 classes for the semester, so please have mercy on me and what are sure to be my sporadic updates. 
> 
> This series is partially the product of donations made to my writing - I'm in a time of need and if any of you are ever inclined to donate towards this series or anything at all I produce, reach me at loserchildhotpants.tumblr.com. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy the beginning of this enormous monster that grew legs and ran away from me!
> 
> Title is inspired by the song 'Spark,' by Amber Run.
> 
> First it's the spark and then it's the flame,  
> Then it's swinging round, round lamp posts in the rain.
> 
> Well, then it's that feeling that you – you just can't shake,  
> That your life's about to start and you just can't wait.
> 
> First it's the spark and then it's the flame,  
> Then it's getting blind drunk in the middle of the day.
> 
> And though it's a comma in a full stop's place,  
> It's that wherever I go – I see your face.
> 
> Oh, paper skin…  
> I'm gonna love you.  
> I'm gonna love you now.
> 
> Let the light in, let the light in.
> 
> Let the light in, let the light in.
> 
> Let the light in, let the light in.
> 
> Let the light in, let the light in.
> 
> First it was fun, now it's fireworks.  
> Was so bright and so harsh that they'll make your eyes hurt.
> 
> Oh, it's the circles of smoke from your cigarette,  
> Oh, it's the beating of drums in the back of your chest.
> 
> Oh, yeah...
> 
> Oh, paper skin,  
> I'm gonna love you.  
> I'm gonna love you now…
> 
> Let the light in, let the light in.
> 
> Let the light in, let the light in.
> 
> Let the light in, let the light in.
> 
> Let the light in, let the light in.
> 
> Let the light in, let the light in.
> 
> Let the light in, let the light in.
> 
> Let the light in, let the light in.
> 
> Let the light in, let the light in.

* * *

  **Song for this Chapter:** ' _Spark_ ,' by Amber Run

* * *

  **Quote for this Chapter:  "** Holy places are dark places. It is life and strength, not knowledge and words, that we get in them. Holy wisdom is not clear and thin like water, but thick and dark like blood."

- C.S. Lewis, from  _‘_ _Till We Have Faces’_

* * *

 

 

“Looks like the neighbors finally moved in,” Han announces as he walks into the house.

He’s got armloads of groceries and Leia goes to help him carry them inside, but Ben is thoroughly distracted with the news break. Han smiles enthusiastically at him because he knew Ben would be excited about it – Ben’s been watching the construction on that monster of a mansion for the last five standard months. The curiosity in Ben has been like a spreading rash nothing can heal away.

“They’ve moved in?” Ben asks eagerly, jumping off the living room couch not to help put foods away, but to pounce on his father for more details.

“Looks like,” Han replies gladly.

Through the corner of his eye, Han catches Leia’s disapproving stare – Ben doesn’t have to look through the corner of his eye because he can feel it from where he is and he doesn’t particularly care about Leia’s disapproval. She doesn’t understand why either of them are interested in the neighbors, but then she’s never understood Ben and Ben thinks she’s likely never understood the part of Han that he so identifies with.

He and Han have spent recent evenings watching the construction of that house down the block, lying back on cushioned benches that decorate the landing outside that serves as their patio. They’ve spent time laughing at clumsy construction workers and Ben has spent many hours listening to Han talk about high-rises he’s broken into, destroyed or otherwise had adventures in. It’s been a bonding experience for them both and to see it finished gave them both some strange and entirely underserved sense of secondhand pride – Ben has been ecstatic to see what aristocrats the house must belong to.

“You _know_ who,” Leia interrupts Ben’s thoughts, still looking uneasy, “We all know who. I don’t like this – Ben, you know what they stand for. I don’t like that they’re so close and I certainly don’t want either of you engaging them.”

“Wasn’t dad a criminal?” Ben asks not for the first time – trying to show Leia the hypocrisy of prejudging their neighbors.

“You say that like it’s past tense,” Han mutters.

“ _Han_ ,” Leia scolds – she turns her attention back to Ben and tells him simply, “It’s different. Your father was a low grade criminal –“

“ _Hey_ –“

Ben snickers at his father’s genuine offense but feels the spike of anxiety and frustration from Leia pull his attention back to her.

“ – and he _redeemed_ himself, Ben,” Leia continues seriously, “He never stood for the Empire and, even if he wasn’t fighting for a cause other than his own personal gain, he was at least not representing powers that wished to oppress, segregate and control. This First Order military forming – they are encouraging this Cold War, they are breeding paranoia and fear. I don’t want either of you engaging the neighbors.”

“You said once that the greatest evil in the universe wasn’t the actual doing of evil, but to sit idly by while evil is done,” Ben retorts, crossing his arms, “By that logic, wouldn’t dad be _worse_ than the Empire, then? If he wasn’t on either side of the war until there was something in it for him?”

“Can we talk like I’m still in the room? Which I am, by the way?” Han asks – he isn’t spared much attention, though.

People tend to think that because of Ben’s apparent desire to buck authority at every turn, he must take after Han. Whenever Han hears that rumor, he jokes that those who assume as much have clearly never met his wife.

Leia is and always has been a rebel in every sense of the word – it’s that rebelliousness, fiery passion and bright energies that always attracted him to her. No matter his crimes, Han followed specific codes and did a lot of hiding under rocks in times of conflict – Leia was the one that ran headlong into danger.

The same way Ben tends to now, in adolescence.

Ben fights Leia at every turn and Han seems to have little influence over their relationship. He and Ben are very close, but any advice he gives on the relationship between Ben and his mother is ignored – by both parties.

Leia sighs heavily about the entire situation a lot – she’s glad Han and Ben are close, she only wishes Ben respected her authority more. She’d like for him to like her as much as he likes Han, but she realizes that, being the Mature One, the authority figure – it’s ostracized her. She is the disciplinary in the house and that’s left Han with the role of Fun Dad. Predictably, Ben has always preferred him.

“Ben,” Leia begins grimly, “let me make myself very clear.”

While Ben smirks, Han stiffens with anxiety – Ben has no fear in the face of his mother, which Han does not understand. When she turns on her Mom Voice, even Han shakes in his boots. He doesn’t know where Ben gets his gusto, but he can’t imagine it’s from his side. Leia can just _look_ at him some way and he’ll seriously worry about spontaneous combustion.

“That house down the street belongs to the Commandant of the First Order. This is not some unsavory character who might pluck flowers from the garden – this is a person who is actively spreading propaganda, someone who feeds off the fear of the lower classes and believes they have the right to assign values to people’s lives. I don’t want that in my home, Ben.”

“Who even said anything about anyone coming over?” Ben asks in frustration, throwing his arms up and out, “I just want to see them! Nothing ever happens around here and it’s the first interesting thing I’ve seen here since dad was drunk and tried to land the Falcon in the backyard! What are you worried about?”

A significant glance is traded between Han and Leia, the air tenses and Leia sighs before admitting, “I don’t know anything beyond this, so please do not ask me for more information, but…”

She pauses, looking at Han again before reestablishing eye-contact with Ben and finishing, “…the Commandant has a child around your age. I’m worried, Ben, that you’ll… engage.”

“ _Stars_ , stop talking about me like I’m a robot – about to _engage_ – this is ridiculous. If the Commandant’s got a kid, they probably go to the First Order Academy, don’t they? Officer’s School or whatever? They probably won’t even be there.”

“Ben, that isn’t the –“

“Nope! No!” Ben interrupts, genuinely frustrated now, “This is ridiculous! There’s _no war_ going on!”

“ _Yet_ ,” Leia emphasizes.

“For the _love of_ – I’m going out there. I’m going down the street right now. I’m going to look up and see if anyone’s around and when I find out that they’re regular humans with differing political opinions and not war-mongering beasts of some bygone era, then we can close this stupid chapter of our lives.”

Ben starts toward the door and although Leia calls after him, Han doesn’t go to stop him. Ben can tell that Han at least partially agrees with him – that Han too believes the war took too much of a toll on Leia and that while the neighbors might not be the type to invite over for a ‘welcome to the block,’ dinner, that they’re probably just average people on the other side of the political fence. Han doesn’t think a war is imminent the way Leia does – he says nothing so that he doesn’t actively speak up in opposition to Leia, but the nothing he says is just as important as agreeing to anything else.

With no one stopping him, Ben leaves the house and walks through the fading sunlight, down the street and up to the seven-foot-tall border surrounding the mansion. He gives himself a short running start so that he can get his arms over the top of the fence and look into the yard.

The lawn is a rich green, there are bars on the windows all the way up to the third floor, the architecture looks almost gothic in comparison to the light colored houses all around the block. The fence around it is certainly a hint to be taken by all.

There’s something like a gymnastics course surrounding the house – pull-up bars varying in height from seven to ten feet, a thirty-five-foot long Rig, a Traverse rope that looks to be at least a hundred feet in length, monkey-bars with heightening degrees of space between them and what appears to be a wood work, like one might find in a children’s schoolyard. If that children’s schoolyard was out of a nightmare, that is. The structure is made up of bars and ladders but has no discernable path of getting around or over it – while the top of it is vaulted, the barred walls to the structure are at a forty-five degree angle.

The obstacle course is so convoluted that Ben feels his muscles getting tired just _looking_ at it.

Just as he’s trying to picture how impressive the Commandant’s build must be, Ben hears some movement nearby, looks to the windows of the first floor and sees a figure with red hair.

It’s red hair or an open flame – he doubts the Commandant would set fire to his own house just after moving in and the flame is looking pretty stable. His bet is on the red hair.

Ben’s never seen someone with red hair before – at least, not in person. He’s only met two blonde people in his life too – rarities among humans like that is fascinating to Ben. He knows his galactic history well enough to know red and blonde hair used to be relatively common, but now it’s almost alien to the gene pool and still dying out.

This red hair isn’t dull or auburn, either. It’s honey, tea rose and vermillion from where Ben is able to see it. It’s catching the light of the setting sun through the tall windows and, although Ben can’t see the figure’s face when it turns towards him, he can sense eyes on him through the bars and through the glare of the sun. The sensation of being caught makes him nervous enough to drop his weight and back away from the house.

He looks up and down the wall a few times before sighing, deciding the adventure of the Interesting New Neighbors is over and heads home to bask in the victory of his retaliation.

He can at least tell Han that the Commandant is red-headed – Han knows how Ben takes an interest in these genetic abnormalities and he thinks Han will get a laugh out of it. He’s right, of course. Han laughs cheerily, blissfully unaware of Leia’s unpleasant, strained scowl.

He doesn’t join his parents for dinner that night, which is not in any way an abnormality. He eats maybe twice a day and never on a schedule Leia approves of. She insists that he’s a growing boy and needs to eat more regularly and with better health, but he’s already quite tall and more prone to accumulating muscle than he is to fat. He doesn’t pay her mind on the matter – Han eats irregularly, Ben doesn’t see why he shouldn’t be allowed to eat whenever he pleases. Sometimes he stays hungry just to be obstinate. He’s not sure why. He’s not sure why does most things he does.

That night, rather than eating, he lies down on his bed in his room and meditates. His night vision is spectacular, so his lights are off most of the time, even when he’s reading. Even the two moons shining white light through his window is a bit much – he uses black-out curtains most nights to block that out as well, but this night, he spreads his curtains wide and opens his window.

He stares out, down the street at what he can see of the new neighbors’ house and breathes in the cool night air. He wonders if the excitement of their arrival truly ends at that turn of the block. He almost wishes the construction had never ended, just so he could have something to look forward to again.

_That’s pathetic_ , he tells himself.

Then, his life is fairly pathetic.

When he rests his back onto his plush blankets, he shuts his eyes and releases his tightly wound energy into the ether. His own spirit and energy is like a coiled spring most days and it’s at night, during meditation and right before sleeping that he lets it unfold, unraveling it by a thread to undo the itchy sweater he wears under his skin.

He knows the Force takes no shape and some things as abstract as time and sound don’t either, but he always feels other energies and hears inner-voices, dreams and thoughts of those nearby and imagines them as the inside of a beehive.

There’s so much buzzing, so much going on, the walls are coated, it’s enclosed by how far he’s willing to widen the opening to his beehive and sometimes he widens it until he feels something snap and hurt in his skull – just to see how far he can take it. There’s plenty of noise, though, no matter how much space he allows for it and while one voice or shape might be particularly loud or distinct as it whizzes by, collectively, the mass unconscious of the public makes a dull white noise that’s rather soft. Not sharp like a buzz, like the way Ben always imagines it.

Still curious, Ben feels for newer or unfamiliar energies nearby, stretching himself around his block and he spots them pretty immediately.

There are two brilliant energies he’s never felt before.

To describe spirits being sensed through the Force is just about impossible – to sense the essence of others is incomparable, but Ben always makes an attempt to visualize them. It makes coping with how in touch with everything he is a little more manageable. It makes the enormity and complexity of being so Force-sensitive easier to compartmentalize, if he can assign imagery and recognizable sounds to what he senses out there and the Great, Big Something.

So energies of others can’t really be described, not in terms anyone would truly understand, but if he needed to liken the energies to anything and to a person who could only understand Earthly comparisons, one energy – the first energy he senses – is the aftermath of an avalanche on a deep, icy crevasse. It’s eerie, not silent, but quiet, simmering, waiting almost. It has reached some peak of potential and slid over itself, but there is no sense of peace or restfulness. There is uneasiness, suspicion and chill. The storm is not over, there are bones, white as the snow and the sensation of kickback from firing a blaster.

Stranger Number One is definitely interesting.

The other energy, Stranger Number Two – this energy is crackling, sparking – just catching, but it’s not a fire. It’s not a fire and whatever it is, it’s unnatural.

It’s a black cyclone, if cyclones were soft like spun wool and graceful as a feather settling in the grass and if black could be a multitude of colors, all unfamiliar to the plain, human eye. The second energy is a funnel spider, spinning a deep, labyrinthine world for itself and itself alone. It wishes to escape and it is cool starlight, this energy. This energy is dangerous, luminescent eyes in the darkness where none should be, it is devastation poised, patient and still demanding. It is potential resting on some razor’s edge.

Ben hates the word ‘potential,’ but he’s not well-read enough to know a proper synonym for it. And it’s not that he hates the word for the word itself, he only hates it for how it has been applied to him his entire life. He hates when his teachers or his parents talk about his ‘potential,’ as they so often do – always implying that it’s being wasted or that it’s not being reached. He is always coming up short, he is always taking too long, he is always too little and too much and no one is ever satisfied. It’s futile to argue that his ‘potential,’ is no one’s business but his own, as no one has listened to him his entire life – he’s always been old enough to know better than what he does, but too young to know what is best for himself.

He’s really rather positive he’s surrounded by idiots.

They’ve never understood him – his mentors, relatives, parents, teachers. They could never see what is so apparent to him. There _is_ no potential when it comes to Ben – why can no one see this? He is _kinetic_ , he is ruin and chaos, meant to move, meant to ignite, not to marinate in some awful delusion of normalcy everyone so wants him to bathe in. They’d overcook him if they ever could hunt well enough to catch, kill and devour him. But he cannot be devoured. He can only devour everything around him and it’s in this trait that he finds kinship in the second energy.

Stranger Number Two is a black hole, lightning, a shadow on the wall, it swallows light and it is an anomaly, it is strange, it is indifferent in the face of pain, uncomprehending in the face of affection, it is venomous, fire-breathing, maybe and it is positively devastating. _Devastating_.

And Ben is _fascinated_.

His energy slides by this dark, torturous thing, wondering at it like a holo-photo of something he’s not meant to see and he feels himself recognized.

_I thought your type were extinct._

The thought is direct, but it is not meant unkindly and Ben is unsure what to make of the thought. He takes a moment to truly understand that he’s been sensed, but perhaps this Stranger is Force-sensitive as well? Ben can’t even tell if that would be a relief or not.

_Just about._

_Have you followed me from somewhere? Are you haunting me?_

_No_ , Ben answers, the Stranger’s voice rising above the buzz of sleeping neighbors and pets, the song of night birds, the twirl of the planet on its axis, the white noise of thoughts and energies tangling into some indiscernible shape.

_Then what are you doing here?_

_I’m not sure_ , Ben answers honestly.

There’s copper on Ben’s tongue, a low rumbling in his ears, his heart makes a sinking feeling, but it’s not unpleasant – it’s just strange. There’s blood like a babbling brook and Ben can’t tell if it’s scarlet or cyanic, there’s a mausoleum unkempt with ivy and colorful molds around its complicated structure, there’s accomplishment with a desperate longing to die, there are bell peppers, the number seven, he thinks music is playing from somewhere, but he can’t determine from where or what it even sounds like.

_Are you surprised I found you in here?_

_Yes_ , Ben admits.

_There is nothing in here I have not turned over countless times. I know when something is not quite right. Any secrets you might be looking for are very safely hidden away and I would deter you from venturing further._

_I’m not interested in your secrets._

_You should be._

There’s a funeral procession made on bare feet, slow blinking eyes, a crepuscular aura, there’s blaster smoke and thick cream – he understands none of it, but he is endeared somehow. His attention is undeniably captured and seeing as so few things can do that to him, he’s rightfully incited when his mother’s voice breaks his hold on the singular voice among the white noise and in an instant, it is lost to him.

_Go to sleep, Ben. Stop poking around in the commonwealth’s unconscious – it’s impolite._

Rather than answering, Ben throws up soot-black walls, blocking Leia violently out of his mind. He glares at his closed bedroom door, hoping she can feel his resentment through the walls.

He takes a lingering last glance outside his bedroom window, stares at the house down the street and wonders, wonders, wonders, then lies down and still until he can fall into a restless sleep.


	2. The Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Trigger Warnings for this chapter, other than that Hux is sort of an asshole. But... did you need a trigger warning for that? Probably not. Here anyway. Enjoy!

* * *

  **Song for this Chapter:** ' _Coming of Age_ ,' by Foster the People

* * *

  **Quote for this Chapter:**

"Give me blood and rage and  
a heart for horror; teach me to be  
tough enough to face this world  
still standing. Make a Fury of me."

 

\- Elizabeth Hewer, from “Finding Ariadne” in _[Wishing for Birds](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.amazon.ca%2FWishing-Birds-Elisabeth-Hewer-ebook%2Fdp%2FB017BMDXWQ%2Fref%3Dsr_1_1%3Fs%3Ddigital-text%26ie%3DUTF8%26qid%3D1488660645%26sr%3D1-1%26keywords%3Dwishing%2Bfor%2Bbirds&t=YmE3MDFmMWM2MGFmMmJmMzVhNWI5NDhjNzMyNzg5ZTQwMjI2NzJiNyxXRlRTNkxZdQ%3D%3D&b=t%3Ajdy3RpRWZH9ACG8FyWlShA&p=http%3A%2F%2Floserchildhotpants.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F158497013946%2Fgive-me-blood-and-rage-and-a-heart-for-horror&m=1)_

* * *

 

 

As Ben is settling into his homeroom class, he feels a shift in the air. He’s grown used to his classmates’ auras and, at times, loud and obnoxious thoughts they have no ability or desire to reign in, but something is tense and different this day.

The morning has been slow thus far and being so close to graduation makes every day seem like a small eternity – even that tension isn’t what’s bleeding into the air, though.

He stares at his teacher, evaluating him for some sign of what’s to come and when everyone is settled and quieted, the man looks at them all plainly and announces, “we’ve a new student. Please do try to contain yourselves.”

Ben doesn’t understand why whispering ensues – he doesn’t understand _most_ of what his peers do, actually, he only tries not to mind it. He watches the door to the classroom open as a young man steps in.

The boy’s about six feet tall, he’s lithe but not so thin that he looks easy to push around, he’s in a collared shirt and sweater and he has a watch set to military time. His heart is steady, his mind is clear, his blue eyes are focused, sharp and his red hair is slicked back with a perfectly straight part on the left side. His aura is… crepuscular.

When Ben goes to probe the young man’s mind for some more basic information, maybe even introduce himself again as the intruder from the night before, those razor eyes snap to his and he hears, very clearly; _don’t you dare even try, mongrel._

A cold rush of chills runs down Ben’s spine, his heart doubles its speed and his eyes widen – he’s alarmed, genuinely, by the lightning-speed of this man’s inner reflexes and he’s never been _kicked out_ of someone’s frontal lobe before. He’s never even been _sensed_ in someone’s frontal lobe before. Then again, it seems it would be this young man that sensed him even as he did what would be equivalent to tip-toeing through the halls of his neighbor’s dreams. He was sensed even when looking from afar.

Ben is reminded of how his eyes were sensed over the Commandant’s fence, how someone had snapped their eyes to him, made him feel caught and nervous. He had originally thought he’d seen the Commandant through the window the day before, but clearly, that is not the case. It must have been this young man. This young man who can sense him in all forms, no matter how quiet and unassuming he makes himself.

“Introduce yourself,” the teacher proposes, sitting at his desk and gesturing vaguely at the crowd of young people, eagerly appraising the Stranger.

The Stranger moves his eyes from Ben’s and scans his audience, looking as though he’s collecting data. He takes a beat or so to gather his thoughts and then he speaks in an accented voice, “greetings. You may call me Officer or Hux or Sir or an appropriate variation thereof – and before anyone asks, yes, I am directly related to the Commandant of the First Order, ‘Hux,’ is not a common surname and there is such a thing as a stupid question. I’ve just graduated Officer’s School as an Infantry Officer, and while I would have liked a break from studies, the Commandant believes most literally that we can all rest once we’re dead and to dawdle is a waste of one’s limited and arbitrary existence. So, I’ve been sent here – quite against my will, I might add. I’ve never attended a public school and while I understand that _hazing_ is part of the cultural zeitgeist of public schools, I should warn you all that my training has left me… _less_ than keen on surprises and perceived slights and I would advise against engaging me in any of your social protocols for the newly-absorbed.”

A bizarre and disconcerted silence follows Hux’s introduction of himself – he seems pleased with himself for having made everyone else so visibly uncomfortable. Ben is having trouble reading Hux’s energies – he doesn’t seem particularly malicious, but he doesn’t precisely give off rays of light and friendliness either. Ben doesn’t understand how, but somehow, this entire introduction is a power play.

Hux offers a very forced half-smile and adds, “if any of you have questions, bear in mind that I’m a very private person, you can assume at all times that I would much rather be doing anything other than whatever you’d like to talk to me about and so keep your questions and statements short and to the point – an idle brain is the Devil’s playground, as it is said. I am not _too_ much like the Commandant, but I do hate to waste neural activity on dead ends or small talk. Neurons are nonrenewable resources that I have no intention to waste on social niceties, so if you’re the sensitive type, do us both a favor and steer clear of me. I do hope we all understand each other. Any questions I ought to clear out now?”

When no one speaks, Hux intakes sharply and then says, “alright, then, I’ll cover the basics – take notes if need be, I do hate repeating myself. What can I tell you about the First Order? Nothing and don’t ask me again. Do I really ‘count,’ as an Officer of any militant establishment if it is not formally recognized by the galactic government? What I can tell you is that after having finished combat training at the Academy, I am legally considered a deadly weapon and unless you’d like to be at the less fortunate end of a demonstration in First Order training, I’d stop that line of questioning right there.”

Hux’s posture is militant, his back is straight, his head is held high, his eyes are forward and intense. He is certainly a formidable presence. His aura is dense, oversaturated – Ben can feel Hux’s cumulative intellect from where he sits. He doesn’t just sound intellectual – he seems to be an embodiment of the virtue itself.

“The follow-up to that question is usually, will I _teach_ you how to maim, injure or kill others?” Hux continues rhetorically, “No, I will not – I don’t care what the circumstances are, most every and anything I have to say on the art of tact and combat will undoubtedly fly over your head anyway, so little point to it. My qualifications and specialties are immense in quality and so extensive in quantity that it makes little sense to list them here for you as short term memory only allows for encoding between fifteen and thirty seconds with a capacity to hold only seven items of information at a time – acoustic material is particularly fragile and notoriously unreliable, so if you do have questions about my specialties, I would narrow down your interests to what you are most capable of remembering as, again, I’m not a fan of _repetition_. Do I _color_ my hair? _No_ , I do not, it’s a _gene mutation_ , approximately one percent of the human population carries it and if you have commentary on it, I can assure you that even if I made a herculean effort, I could not bring myself to care less about your opinion on the matter. I’m rather sure that covers the surface questions most frequently asked, unless you all would like to know my favorite color or what fictional character I most identify with – the answers to which are beryl red and God. Now, is there assigned seating or is there no applicable method to this madness?”

The last bit is directed at the teacher who clearly has no idea what to say – he’s just sitting there, gaping like a fish. Ben wants to laugh, but he stops himself, rather worried that Hux might consider his laughter inappropriate or perceive it as an insult rather than the compliment it truly would be. Han and Chewie are the only beings in the galaxy capable of making him laugh and it took them a long time to learn his strange sense of humor – Hux is a novel man, clearly.

“Oh, shut your mouth, sir, honestly,” Hux chides, glaring at the man’s open mouth, “are you trying to catch flies?”

“The seat next to me is free.”

Hux turns back to look at Ben again and assesses him in silence, gradually accepting that no one else seems willing or able to give him direction. He walks with structure, grace and an evident cadence, which Ben inexplicably likes as well.

As advised, Hux takes the seat next to Ben without complaint, drapes the sling of his canvas bag over the back of his seat, straightens his unbothered shirt collar and settles into a very proper sitting posture.

He wonders why Hux has not brought up the fact that Ben visited his home and his mind just the other night – that they’ve, even as informal as it was, _met_ each other already. He wonders if Hux is intentionally ignoring the fact that they’ve interacted so personally because he's offended or if he doesn’t know what to say about it at all and so chooses to say nothing. This Officer Hux is… _wondrous_.

_Finally_ , Ben thinks to himself, watching the shine of Hux’s red hair as the light from the class window gleans over it and the teacher unsteadily begins lecture, _someone **interesting**._


	3. Wise Men and Terrible Monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Trigger Warnings for this chapter!

* * *

**Song for this Chapter:** 'No Good,' by Kaleo

* * *

  **Quote for this Chapter:**   "You can be affected by a person because of something particular they said or did but sometimes how a person was, a manner of being, that gets most deeply absorbed, and prompts you to revisit certain parts of your life with an enhanced perspective, flowing forward right up to now." 

\- Chang-rae Lee, [On Such a Full Sea](https://www.amazon.com/Such-Full-Sea-Novel/dp/1594486107)

* * *

  

“My name is Ben.”

“I don’t recall filing a request for that information.”

“You didn’t,” Ben replies, smiling with a quirked brow, “That’s the thing to do, though.”

“ _What’s_ the thing to do?” Hux asks, looking irritated as he searches his canvas bag for something, “Fill my head with unnecessary data?”

Ben laughs, which earns him a scowl for some reason.

At least Hux is looking at him now.

He schools his features and adds, “introducing oneself. It’s the thing to do. You know, to meet people.”

Hux sneers, as if a terrible odor has just passed him, “I’ll have you know that, as a general rule, I hate people and make a point to avoid socialization.”

There’s an argument or joke there that Ben could make – something about how Hux made all that clear as day the moment he walked into the classroom, but he bites his tongue. Hux does not seem to like even friendly jabs at his persona and Ben isn’t putting it past this guy to just start outright ignoring him if he pushes too many of the wrong buttons.

“What don’t you hate?”

This question calls Hux’s attention, refocuses his eyes and, it’s clear that Ben is not at the forefront of Hux’s mind – Hux doesn’t care for this conversation or Ben, for that matter, but he’s willing to entertain it so long as it’s interesting. And clearly, that was a question he was not expecting.

“Very few things.”

“Yes, but what things?”

Scowl deepening, but intrigue apparent, Hux turns on his class chair to better face Ben. He assesses Ben and then asks, “why do you care?”

“It’s the thing to do.”

“To care?”

“I suppose.”

“About strangers?”

“We’re hardly strangers.”

A quick moving light shifts in Hux’s icy eyes and Ben worries he’s said the wrong thing. There’s a brief pause while Hux’s expression sinks into something more neutral rather than immensely bothered. He eventually mutters, “no, I suppose we’re not.”

A little thrill runs through Ben – he _likes_ Hux. He barely knows the boy and he’s easily the most interesting person Ben’s had the chance to meet in his _life_. He’s been forced to socialize with royalty, politicians and countless ‘heroes,’ and ‘great minds,’ but he’s never liked a single one of them. They’ve always either been too much like his mother to enjoy or too bland to think anything of at all.

Hux, though – he’s exciting just to _talk_ to. Ben is eager to know more and he’s particularly thrilled by the thought of how absolutely appalled his mother will be when he can honestly tell her that he met the neighbor’s son and thinks him the most intriguing person on Chandrila.

“So, you know who I am?” Ben inquires, a bit too gladly for Hux’s taste, apparently.

“ _Obviously_ ,” Hux rolls his eyes, “Benedict Organa – an ancient name that I’m assuming has some history on your maternal side of the family. You are son of Han Solo, a known Rebel, thief and exonerated criminal. Son also to the diplomat and Senator Leia Organa; you’re seventeen standard years old turning eighteen shortly, politically you swing far to the right and while you might not be as diplomatic as your mother or interested in pursuing a political career such as hers, you are well-versed in galactic history, are regarded as a prodigy in most circles of power, and being the technical prince of Alderaan, you have many powerful friends in very high places. Based on our interactions, I’d place your I.Q anywhere between one-fifteen and one-thirty, you’re fit, healthy, Force-sensitive, stronger than average, taller than average and more annoying than average. Wrong on any accounts?”

Ben’s hair is tied back and he feels it sway back and forth, tickling his neck as he shakes his head in wonderment, looking and feeling blindsided, “how in the stars could you possibly know all of that?”

Smirking, Hux replies smugly, “I make it a point to know _everything_. Being the only child of the Commandant of the First Order puts me in something of a political spotlight. I need to know everything worth knowing about everyone worth knowing.”

Shamelessly flirting, Ben leans in closer and asks teasingly, “and I’m worth knowing?”

“You’re worth keeping _some_ measure of record of,” Hux corrects, eyes drifting away again to his canvas bag, rummaging re-commencing, “You and your father are hardly a concern to me. Your mother, on the other hand, I may know better than your own father does. Leia Organa – now that’s a woman worth knowing.”

Scoffing, Ben puts his chin in his hand and stares down at Hux’s bag, “I’d tend to disagree with you.”

“Disagree all you like – having disdain for someone, even rightful or well-founded disdain, does not automatically discredit their strengths,” Hux lectures, “I’ve made myself perfectly disliked in a single interaction today, and that is no mistake, but dislike me they may – I encourage it – as much as they dislike me, I will remain tactful, clever, lethal and more skilled than any of them have the brain capacity to fully appreciate. If you’d like a word of advice from potentially the most clever tactician you’ll have the displeasure of interacting with – the best favor you can do yourself is admire your enemies.”

Well, that’s certainly not what Ben was expecting to hear.

“ _Admire_ them?”

“Mm,” Hux confirms in a hum, gesturing with a single hand loftily, “Overestimate them, reaffirm them their oft-desired grandiosity, think them immortal and in constant evolution. Give them their due credit and more – they are just as capable as you, if not more so.”

“And what kind of benefit would that way of thinking have, exactly?”

“What better drive is there to reach the zenith of yourself?” Hux postulates, “Some say comparison is the thief of joy, but I take a different view. Comparison is by far the greatest motivator for self-improvement.”

“You sound like you must be real fun at parties,” Ben jokes drily, still smiling.

“Fun doesn’t come into the equation,” Hux replies matter-of-factly, “Tradition, honor, discipline and excellence, the pillars of man. That’s the –"

“Do you need help finding something?”

Hux glances up from his bag sharply and looks affronted at being interrupted, but he also looks frustrated with his own rummaging.

Ben gestures at the bag and asks, “what are you looking for at the bottom of the bag?”

“My cigarras, if you must know.”

Glancing down at the bag, with little focus needed, Ben hones in on the scent of cigarras – whatever type Hux smokes are very floral but in no way intoxicating. Makes sense, Ben supposes – Hux must be subject to random drug tests, being an Officer in a militant setting. He lifts the case of cigarras out of the bag with the weight of his gaze and keeps them levitating in front of Hux until Hux takes hold of them.

Hux’s spidery fingers touch gently at the bottom of the case and he stares closely at it, as if some evidence of the Force would be left on it. He looks at Ben again and Ben smirks at him. Ignoring Ben’s ego, Hux opens the silver case, slips out a long, thin, black-papered cigarra and holds it out towards Ben.

Confused, Ben cocks a brow and Hux asks curiously, “can you conjure anything? Can you light this?”

And Ben…

Has no idea, actually.

He’s never really been permitted to conjure things other than water, and even _that_ Leia was hesitant to teach him how to do. Fire is raw, kinetic energy, though and while Ben thinks he could probably improvise it well enough – maybe follow his instincts and create some fire by his fingertips or palm, he just isn’t sure. He wants to - for Hux, he'd like to and he's sorry he doesn't know how.

Enough hesitation tells Hux all he needs to know and, disinterested again, Hux looks away and mutters, “pity.”

There’s a nauseating churn in Ben’s stomach at that – he doesn’t want his interaction with Hux to end here and he doesn’t like that he can’t flaunt power as easily as Hux apparently can. Hux isn’t even Force-sensitive and he still seems more formidable than Ben. He’s so… _larger than life_ and Ben wants to feel like there’s more equal footing – he’s never been more frustrated to have been denied so much knowledge of his Force abilities.

No matter what follows or what injuries his ego sustains, he doesn’t want the conversation to end, so, when Hux stands, he does too.

Hux appears to pretend not to notice Ben as he walks through the halls and out of the building and as soon as they’re outside, Hux takes a lighter from his pocket and lights his cigarra. Ben thinks it’s interesting that Hux seems to hate all the universe, but is still gracious enough not to smoke indoors.

They walk through the lot by the school building for a while until Hux stops and leans up against what Ben would have guessed was an altered Joben T-85 speeder bike, but it’s thinner, sleeker and it has a vintage type of design to it. It hovers, its body is unlike anything Ben has seen before – it’s black and red and it’s possibly the coolest thing Ben has ever been near.

“Didn’t peg you for the adventurous type,” Ben mentions, still staring at the bike.

After a shallow inhale and exhale, Hux replies, “hardly about adventure. The only time you’ll find my body on public transport is if it’s cold and dead and I didn’t want to invest in something bulky or ordinary. My bike is more energy-efficient, it’s immensely fast and one-of-a-kind.”

“Oh yeah?” Ben asks conversationally, looking around the low back fender for signs of make and design.

“I’d say so,” Hux says between inhalations of his cigarra, “I designed and built it myself, after all. If anyone’s stolen my design, I’d have you tell me about it.”

“You built this?” Ben asks incredulously, finally dragging his eyes from the bike back to Hux.

“This?” Hux gestures at the bike with a hitchhiker’s thumb, “This is child’s play. I specialize in engineering. Well, that’s one of my specializations. This took me less than a fortnight – the computer is the only remotely difficult aspect to it and only because I’ve made it so the computer solely recognizes my handprint. It won’t start for anyone else unless someone has managed to dismember me and take my hand with them for a petty crime. Somehow I doubt it will come to that.”

“That’s amazing.”

Interestingly, Hux’s cheeks turn reddish. He looks away, blowing out light blue smoke, “it’s nothing, really. The design is very basic.”

“Well, I think it’s pretty incredible.”

Humbly, Hux bows his head in some show of gratitude and clarifies, “you’re the one that peered into our yard a day or so ago, right?”

“Yeah,” Ben answers, tucking his hands in his jean pockets, “I was curious.”

“Clearly,” Hux notes, “Find anything interesting?”

Smirking again, Ben tilts his head and says, “I’m assuming you really mean to ask what I told my mother.”

“Ah, so you _are_ sharper than you look. Yes – that’d be getting to the heart of it.”

“I said there was the gymnastics course from Hell all over the yard, but nothing else.”

“Was there anything else you saw that was worth reporting back?”

“Aside from you?”

A quick side-glance is all Hux offers him in response. Ben shrugs and tells him, “I said that I think I saw the Commandant and, not realizing it was you, told both my parents that the Commandant is red-headed. That’s all I said.”

“Well, I hope you’ll sleep better knowing you’d not lied to them,” Hux assures him, sucking his cigarra down to its filter; he blows out another plume of blue, floral smoke and adds, “The Commandant does have red hair. So, you won’t feel any pressure to flee the country or quadrant for falsifying data, I hope.”

Ben laughs, feeling strangely nervous. In the daylight, under Chandrila’s star, Hux is really quite handsome. When he imagined a product of the First Order, it wasn’t anything like Hux. He supposed he imagined something a lot more absurd, something more informed by his mother’s paranoia – something much more monstrous.

Hux, though, he just stands there, tall, handsome, capable and eyeing Ben like he might – just maybe, a little bit – be enjoying himself. Hux is clever, competent and very obviously militant, but he does not appear to be a monster. Then again, as Ben has come to learn, the most terrible of monsters are terrible for how they blend seamlessly among the good and virtuous.

There are no horns sprouting from Hux’s forehead, no black sclera, no glowing ancient runes scarring his body – he’s just a man as far as Ben can tell.

And Ben really does like him.

“So long as you don’t mind having me as a neighbor, I won’t feel any pressure to flee, I guess,” Ben jokes back.

“Oh, I mind very much – if I had my way, I’d live far from civilization and having an inquisitive telepath down the street doesn’t precisely give me the warm-fuzzies.”

“I’ll mind my own,” Ben promises, “Last night was a one-off – I just wanted to have a feel for the new energies in the area. Didn’t mean to intrude on your psyche.”

Eyes narrowing, Hux gives Ben something of a disbelieving look and after a long exhale of blue, he asks somewhat rhetorically, “you do realize how close you are to being the greatest security breach the First Order could ever know, correct?”

Ben shrugs, unimpressed, “it doesn’t seem like it’d do me any good. There’s no war – worlds build on their militaries constantly, political parties split all the time – doesn’t seem like it’s anything more than what the galaxy already knows well.”

“Complacency is the first crack in the foundation of freedom,” Hux warns, “No wise man seeks out war, but every wise man is prepared for it.”

“I believe everyone has a right to choose their destiny, Hux.”

Hux’s brows spring up and Ben gets nervous again, looking down at his shoes instead of Hux when he adds, “I think there will always be clashing belief systems and if one belief system has the right to fight for dominance, to spread itself or welcome like-minded people, to grow – then all belief systems have the same rights. Not one way of thinking is ‘correct,’ and I think true complacency is that – the hard-headedness of people that think they’re infallible, thinking and believing there’s only one way to be, think or live. Want to hear something you’ll hate hearing?”

When Ben looks up again, Hux looks rapt and having his attention is a sort of high Ben has never experienced before. Knowing the remarkable intellect being focused on him, that the attention of someone whose attention is so hard to capture is his – it’s intensely rewarding.

“Seeing as I hate most things before they even exist within my plane of understanding, I’m ready to hear anything.”

Nodding, Ben tells him seriously, “tradition, honor, discipline and excellence sounds a whole lot like complacency to me.”

There’s a beat of silence and then Hux drops the cigarra filter to the ground and stomps it out with his shined shoes. He holds Ben’s gaze for a long few beats and then extends his hand.

“If there is nothing else to be gained from today – which there wasn’t – I am glad to have heard that.”

In a haze of astonishment, Ben takes Hux’s hand and feels chills run up his arm and down his back. Hux isn’t cold – he’s warm, his hands are soft and just a little bit calloused. His hold is secure and it feels… somehow… it feels long-awaited. Ben shakes Hux’s hand the way he shakes the hands of royalty and politicians, the way his parents taught him to shake – strong, gentlemanly, assuredly and Hux’s eyes twinkle with approval.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, then, Organa.”

“Ben, please.”

With a single nod, Hux lets go and Ben flexes his hand, the spaces between his fingers tingling in the wake of Hux’s touch. He watches Hux throw one long leg over his bike and as soon as his palms curl around the handlebars, the bike whirrs to life. Ben thinks to himself that he wants one of his own and considers how long and well he’ll have to know Hux before it’s polite to ask for one.

“Ben. Good afternoon.”

Ben’s heart flutters and he smiles best he can, as nervous as he is.

“Afternoon, Officer Hux.”

Hux huffs a laugh and that’s enough to make Ben’s smile genuine.

When Hux zips away, he’s all lean, graceful muscle and Ben is helpless to do much else but watch Officer Hux leave him in the dust.

He bites his lip to keep from grinning like a loon.

His mother will be furious.


	4. Same Side, Different Coins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Emotional abuse.
> 
> I'm not sure how else to phrase that - the arguments that ensue in this chapter are arguments, I think, a lot of people have heard similar versions of between their own guardians/parents, but I still want to put the trigger warning up, in case anyone is triggered by very intimate arguments. They get very personal. Please read carefully!
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone that's donated towards this series - I'm really struggling right now and any/all donations are really, immensely helpful and you can donate towards series or fics if you like - just leave a note about which one you'd like the donation to go towards at paypal.me/loserchildhotpants 
> 
> Thank you to all of you who have donated thus far and thank you, in advance, to any of you that plan to in the future! It means the world to me!

* * *

**Song for this Chapter:** ' _Look What You've Done_ ,' by Jet

* * *

  **Quote for this Chapter:**

 "Everyone’s chest

Is a living room wall

With awkwardly-placed photographs

Hiding fist-shaped holes."

 

\- Andrea Gibson, “ _Class_ "

* * *

 

 

Shutting the heavy doors behind him, Ari sighs and rests his weight there for a moment before resolving to move again. Carrying on existing is such tedious work and he really is tired. Chandrila has been an exercise in cultural shock thus far and Ari feels like he needs a lie-down for just having walked out of the house.

According to the mandatory criteria for diagnosis in Ari’s texts, he’s positive he has a combination of mental illnesses, but the most prominent might be his dysthymia. His depression isn’t powerful enough that he cannot function – it just makes living very barely bearable and his emotions are often in greyscale, if that's a way to think of anything. He has a diminished appetite most days (which certainly hasn’t helped in his pursuit of muscle-building), he’s almost constantly fatigued no matter the quality or quantity of his sleep and he knows that once, as a child, he had interests and things that thrilled him, but he can’t remember a single one of them.

Climbing trees, he remembers rather suddenly. He used to climb trees and that was fun for him, he thinks. He remembers climbing just about anything he could get a good clutch on – he’s not sure what that means, the remembrance of having once enjoyed climbing trees. He doesn’t anymore. He doesn’t climb any trees or rocks anymore, that is, and if he did, he’d be fearful of the nothingness he’d feel in the face of it, if he could even feel fearful beyond the numbness.

His apathy is deeply troubling, in a faraway kind of sense. Which is paradoxical – how can he be pained over his apathy if he’s so apathetic?

It’s futile, though, to try to think one’s way out of a thinking-problem. He knows that. He tries not to dwell. He looks down at his hands and thinks of what bark or stone might feel beneath them, what he might enjoy about such childish endeavors, but he can’t remember.

He can’t remember the joy.

He can’t even recall what it felt like to be overcome with sadness at the loss of joy.

With a resigned sigh, Ari readjusts his canvas bag and peels himself off the doors, walking through the bar room, considering the overpriced whiskey, but ultimately surrendering it to what he is sure to be an ornery evening with the Commandant. He walks through the connecting hallway, then bypasses the dining room to make his way upstairs. He’s halfway up the spiral case when he hears the Commandant’s voice come from below.

“Boy.”

Stopping in his tracks, Ari swallows shallowly and looks over the railing, down to the dining room where he apparently, (and, of course, inadvertently), ignored the Commandant. He supposes it’s not too much of a problem this day, because the Commandant isn’t staring daggers at him – those eyes haven’t left the holopad set on the table, actually.

“Yes?”

“You were meant to have been home approximately ten minutes ago. What delayed you?”

“Nothing important,” Ari replies evenly, “Socialization.”

“Socializing? Voluntarily? You?” the Commandant asks disbelievingly, still not deigning to look up at Ari, “I’ve heard it all now. And how were the plebeians?”

“I’d not waste my time on them,” Ari says, as though his guardian ought to know that much about him already, “I did play nice with one of the boys on the schoolyard, though.”

The Commandant snorts humorlessly, switching tabs on the holopad, “that so?”

“Indeed,” Ari smirks, crossing his arms over the railing and putting his chin on his forearms, “I dare say you might like him.”

Ari’s met with a highly dramatic eye-roll.

“And what would give you that impression?”

“Only that my newest playmate is Senator Organa’s son.”

 _Now_ the Commandant looks up at him and Ari’s smirk spreads. It’s a rarity that he surprises the Commandant, a rarity even that the Commandant looks directly at him. It’s not exactly a treat – he doesn’t like being under that sort of scrutiny (which he always is), but it’s nice to be the one with an ace up his sleeve for once.

He likes exceeding expectation, but his excitement at potentially receiving positive regard is also laced with anxiety. He remembers his childhood joy, as though it were a story he once heard from someone else – it wasn’t him, it didn’t happen to him, those feelings never existed inside his body – he wishes he could feel some one emotion so purely like that again.

He came close to it, actually, when the Organa boy floated his cigarra case. It was such a whimsical, intriguing thing, he could have smiled.

“You found him on your first day?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Ari huffs, straightening up again to walk up the stairs, “I found him last night.”

“And he was – what, polite? Inquiring?”

“Desperate to connect, more like,” Ari explains with a cocked brow, “He’s tolerable, as other human beings go.”

“And of Supreme Leader’s prophecy?” the Commandant asks, trying very hard to sound level-headed, but failing pretty miserably.

“He doesn’t exactly strike me as the Messiah type, but what better way to hide a treasure than to plant something spectacular in plain sight, under a mask of normality?” Ari asks rhetorically, “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“You’d do well to,” the Commandant warns, “What are your pillars?”

“Tradition, honor, discipline and excellence,” Ari answers.

“And what exactly are pillars useful for if the foundation is _weak_?”

Unsure of what to say, Ari doesn’t dare say anything at all. The Commandant’s temper is a wild, unpredictable thing and giving a wrong answer is often much worse than feigning ignorance, so he opts for the latter.

“Your foundation is _loyalty_ ,” the Commandant supplies, “And how is loyalty earned?”

“Through resilience, reliability, reverence and responsibility.”

The Commandant nods with the barest of approvals and then orders, “give me your oath.”

Ari stands up very straight, his chest forward, his shoulders back, his eyes staring ahead and both arms at his sides. Rigidly, he recites, “I, Aurelien Roane Hux, do solemnly affirm that I will support and defend the Charter of the First Order against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the Supreme Leader and the orders of the Officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of First Order Military Justice. So help me God."

“So help you,” the Commandant murmurs dangerously.

With that, Ari nods and in the ensuing silence, escapes to his bedroom and collapses against his mattress, glancing at his dressed windows. On legs more tired than they’ve any right to be, Ari groans in annoyance and age-inappropriate exhaustion, goes to his window and parts the curtains. He opens the window then, leaning his arms over the ledge and he stares out at what he knows to be the Organa-Solo house. He gazes for a long while, wondering if the Organa boy will mention him to his own parents.

He has to smirk to himself at that – he can’t even begin to imagine the fit Senator Organa will have at the thought of her son fraternizing with the enemy. He wonders too if the Organa boy will visit his mind again. It was too brief an experiment to determine whether or not he cared for telepathic company and while he prefers privacy and the boy’s already promised not to go snooping again, he does wonder what the company might feel like.

He wonders what most things feel like.

“Hey, Organa,” Ari says quietly to the open air, “I think you might just be right about that complacency bit. Hope your treachery doesn’t send you too far off – you are the only remotely interesting thing about this place. I’d hate to see you plucked from Chandrila and thrown into the Outer Rim for being so conversational with the bane of your mother’s existence.”

He smiles, thinking of the stray hairs that slipped from Ben’s ponytail and draped, feathery light, against Ben’s neck and behind his ears that he’s yet to grow into. He recalls his compulsion to push those hairs back – Ben’s hair is pretty, if pretty things matter. Which Ari isn’t sure they do. He’s not even sure he knows what he means by Ben having pretty hair – he can’t discern what precisely is pretty about it, but the thought seems benign enough and he allows it to free-float for a while.

Organa boy. Pretty hair. Polite, if a bit dim. Interesting. Undeniably interesting.

 

* * *

 

“This is ridiculous! _Ridiculous_! Why can’t you – _why_ – just – I don’t _understand_ why you insist on disrespecting me!” Leia looks pleadingly to Han, her arms thrown out in frustration, “Why won’t he listen!? What have I done wrong!?”

Ben had come in from school and had barely said hello to his parents before announcing that the Commandant’s son was sat beside him in class, they’d spoken and he’d come to the conclusion he quite liked Officer Hux. He conveniently left out the part where Officer Hux had a homemade racer and asked him to conjure fire. Ben thinks those details aren't really necessary for the discussion at hand.

Since he opened his mouth, Leia has been red-faced and pacing, her powers flickering the lights now and again – just for the sake of being contrary, Ben keeps a tight lid on his powers, remaining perfectly stoic in the face of her meltdown. They do this dance often - she goes stone-still when he bursts at the seams and when her temper cracks glasses and flickers lights, Ben stares at her blankly, wanting her to feel just as unheard as she makes him feel.

“I – I don’t think he –" Han lets out a helpless breath and looks to Ben, “Ben, did you do this to hurt your mother on purpose?”

Doubt is evident in Han’s voice – Han loves Ben to pieces, to a fault, even; since Han first held Ben (as Ben has been told, anyway), he could do no wrong in Han’s eyes. Of all the jewels, treasures, medals and valuables Han has ever coveted, Ben easily took the place of the most valued treasure Han could ever possess.

Ben can always be thankful for that too – whenever Leia and Luke insist on talking about him like he isn’t there, Han can be trusted to speak directly to him, to come to his defense before he even knows the accusations. He’s always given Ben the benefit of the doubt, always granted Ben that very basic respect. And Ben has respected him right back for that.

“She can read my energies,” Ben says innocently, gesturing between both Han and Leia with open arms, as if inviting them to frisk him for signs of lunacy, “I’m being honest. He was nice. Well – not nice, maybe – but he was interesting. And he wasn’t exactly warm, but he wasn’t enormously horrible either. He seems like a normal person to me. Likable, even.”

There’s a vein in Leia’s forehead that looks close to bursting.

“They are _not_ – this – _Han_!”

Han jumps, unsure of what Leia wants and Ben can tell from her conflicted aura that she doesn’t know what she wants from him either. Perhaps to influence Ben into seeing her way, or just influence Han into being on ‘her side.’

With a single, loving and innocuous glance to his father, he breaks his father’s restraints and Han shrugs at her, sighing in that helpless way again.

“I – Leia, I don’t think Ben meant harm. He’s curious – same as I was at his age. And it sounds like the Hux boy wasn’t looking to incite him at all, I think –“

“ _What_!?” Leia shouts, face getting redder – she feels backed against a wall, like she’s on some unpopular team and Han and Ben are on the other, more favorable one together – Ben doesn’t understand how she fails to see that she is the one that divides them in the first place; “You think this is _normal_?! You think we should just schedule a play-date for Ben and the embodiment of evil down the street!?”

Throughout their (many) fights that he’s been witness to, Ben has taken note of how Han gets particularly defensive when Leia asks rhetorical questions like that.

It’s not secret that Han isn’t as intellectual as Leia, but he’s street-smart and he can keep up with her – no one ever tells him that, though. Ben mentions every now and again that he looks up to Han, that he’d like Han to teach him something his mother could easily teach him instead, but he wants it to be Han and he knows it gives Han an ego boost, but otherwise, Han is often left feeling emasculated.

When Leia starts in on him like that, he begins to feel dumb, like Leia is doubting his ability to think clearly or parent correctly. When Leia shoots angry questions like that, like she expects a real (and useless) answer from Han, Han gets _angry_.

Ben sort of lives for it.

He likes when Han sticks up for himself. It’s a bit like someone sticking up for _him_.

“And what if I did!?” Han yells back, stunning Leia, “I’m a parent here too and you know – you know what?”

At that, Han turns to Ben and despite the anger in his face, there’s a trace of happiness in him – at rebellion, Ben supposes. Han never really did like regular civilian life – shooting blasters, outrunning criminals, destroying high risers, challenging powers greater than himself was always Han’s way of life. He wasn’t really meant to be domesticated – or at least, that’s how Ben’s always seen it.

“Ben,” Han addresses, his accusatory finger pointed at Ben, but anything accusatory in it being meant for Leia, “Ben, you have _my_ blessings. You have my blessing and my _permission_ to befriend that boy down the street if you so want to. What’d you say he said to you – about excellence and stuff?”

Ben smiles a little – Han’s approval, especially when it’s in direct violation of Leia’s wishes – is like a warm beam of sunlight on him. He recites to his father, “Officer Hux said that the pillars of man are tradition, honor, discipline and excellence.”

“There, yes!” Han exclaims, looking to Leia, his pointed finger turning into a flat palm, as if he were presenting Ben to an audience, “The pillars of man? Tradition, _honor_ , _discipline_ and _excellence_? And _you_ think the Hux kid is going to be a _bad_ influence on Ben?”

“He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing and you are both fools!” Leia responds, looking as though she’s about to say more, but being cut off by Han.

“Hey, no! That is not even a little fair and you know it! You’re the one always saying he’s not working hard enough or not controlling his powers enough or – or – or anything else you can make him feel small for!”

“Me!?” Leia exclaims, “When have I ever -!”

“Everyday!” Han insists just as Ben thinks it – Ben’s chest loosens, feeling protected by Han and represented by Han in a domain where he’s not generally permitted to represent himself, “Everyday, Leia! You’re the one jumping down his throat day in and day out about work ethic and responsibility and discipline – he could learn a thing or two from a military Officer!”

“The _First Order_ is _not_ a genuine military establishment!” Leia denies, items in the kitchen beginning to float as her powers become further untethered, “Ben is _not_ to go over there! Ben is _not_ to talk to that boy again – I will sooner pull him out of school and move us to the Outer Rim than have him engage in one more singular conversation with that family! I will take us all from this house, this block, this _planet_ if it will keep him safe!”

“And where does _Ben’s_ intuition come into play?” Han interrogates, “When, exactly, are you going to trust your son, Leia? When are you going to let him grow, make his own decisions about who he is, who he wants in his company, who he wants to be – when are you going to let him live his life unscripted?”

“When he is wise enough to do so!”

“How is he supposed to get wiser if you don’t let him make any mistakes?!” Han cries.

“Mistakes that could ruin me – you – _us_ – _all_ of us!? Well, pardon, Han, if I don’t think Ben wandering knowingly into a snake pit is a test of wisdom to be celebrated!”

Han stiffens up, his fists clenching at his sides, “all he did was have a friendly conversation with a boy you’ve not even met! Why can’t you just be glad for him!? Why can’t you just _trust him_!?”

“Because he cannot be trusted to do what’s best!”

“And you wonder why he hates you!?”

The room falls silent and the items that had taken to levitating in the kitchen drop abruptly and the flickering lights settle on their usual 72% setting. Ben glances at Han, but Han is looking deflated and worried now, having nearly forgotten Ben was there to hear him fight. Ben doesn’t mind so much – Han pays him enough respect as an individual and he wanted Han to get carried away anyway. He wanted Han to say something just like that and Han, as ever, refuses to disappoint him.

Love Han as Ben may, he knows how to manipulate the man and he’s not shy in doing so.

When it’s clear no one knows what to say, Ben says to no one in particular, “evil is no solid thing, it’s not a person – it’s not an action either. It’s just a concept and concepts are subjective, culture to culture and person to person. I don’t think Officer Hux is evil.”

He looks up at his mother and keeps his face very even when he tells her, “I think you’re paranoid and I think you find it easier to imagine the galaxy as divided into what’s good and what’s bad, Light and Dark, the virtuous and the evil, but I think you’re wrong. I think Officer Hux can be grey and, for the record, I don’t hate you.”

Leia stares at him with wide eyes as he narrows his and finishes, “I hate the things you do. I hate how you treat me. You’re my mother, though. I don’t hate you. If you really do take me away from here, though, I can’t promise that won’t change.”

Running a trembling hand over her hair, Leia makes a soft sobbing noise that could also be a self-deprecating laugh and then she storms from the room. Han looks after her, emanating remorse. He looks at Ben and says, “kiddo, I trust you. I do. You really do have my blessings. What this galaxy needs now more than ever are bridges and olive branches. I think being cordial to that kid was the decent thing to do and I’m proud of you.”

Ben smiles at Han and pulls Han into a hug, sincerely grateful. When Han has thoroughly ruffled his hair affectionately as he likes to do, Ben pulls away and Han says to him, “all that being said, I gotta go make sure your mom’s okay.”

Nodding his understanding, Ben lets Han follow Leia to their room where she’s locked him out. From down the long hall, Ben can hear Han knocking, asking sorrowfully to be let in, to be forgiven for speaking so rudely to her.

With Han’s attention gone and Leia brooding in their room, consumed with confliction, Ben blocks out the noise of their disagreements, breathing deeply to keep his cool exterior in place. He doesn’t want Leia noticing any spikes of resentment or anger – she’ll latch onto anything he gives her – purposefully or inadvertently and he has no plan to let her wield his disdain like a weapon. Or use it as an excuse to take him from Chandrila the moment something interesting happens in his life.

Idly, he wonders if he will singlehandedly destroy the union between Han and Leia eventually.

He wonders how long that might take, if it will happen at all. After all, the two are both so stubborn, they might just stay together out of sheer spite, unwilling to bend.

Once Ben is alone in the sitting room, he smiles to himself, thinking about how he'll teach himself to conjure fire by the end of the standard week, thinking about how much he’d like to go over to Officer Hux’s house right then and have a ‘play-date.’ Just to see how far he can push Leia until she finally cracks.

Until she finally just admits that she hates him and always has.

The way he knows she always has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melanie, you're doing switching POV's for this fic?!?!  
> Yes, I am! I'm also keeping my fanon name for Hux because, while I'm getting used to the canon name, I still... sort of... despise it.
> 
> Melanie, what the fuck is this prophecy business about!?  
> Remember when Hux told Ben telepathically that Ben /ought/ to be interested in his secrets? ;]
> 
> Melanie, the Commandant has Hux trained like a dog - that's sorta sad.  
> Yeah. I mean, I intend to make everyone upset when I write, because I'm awful, but yeah.


	5. The Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Abusive parental figure, vomit mention, food mention and over-exercise mention. 
> 
> P.T here and in upcoming chapters in the series stands for Physical Training  
> P.F.T here and in upcoming chapters in the series stands for Physical Fitness Test  
> C.F.T here and in upcoming chapters in the series stands for Combat Fitness Test

* * *

  **Song for this Chapter:** _'I Am the Fire,'_ by Halestorm

* * *

**  
Quote for this Chapter:**  

"I do not need someone to complete me,

but if you wanted to,

we could walk next to each other,

into whatever is coming next."

 

- Meghan Lynn 

* * *

 

 

“Officer Hux, over.”

Woken from a discontented dream, Ari groans at the intercom on his bedside table, brows curving in to scowl, but eyes too heavy to open yet.

Life here with the Commandant – it’s like he never left combat training. He might prefer death if he knew what death were like, compared to the Hells he was living.

He’s in a constant state of discomfort, fatigue and restraint.

“At _attention_ , Officer Hux – over!”

Reaching blindly out from his blanket, Ari smacks the button on the intercom and replies readily, “aye, over.”

“I expect you in the dining hall at oh-five-hundred hours and not a second later. P.T begins at oh-seven-hundred hours, over.”

“Aye, roger that.”

The intercom goes out after that and Ari can at least be thankful for that.

Silence is just so beautiful.

As he dresses for the day, there is no light out his window yet, but at least it’s warmer on Chandrila than it was at his training camp. Despite that, he is still cold.

He always runs cold.

No matter how good his physical training scores were, his circulation has always been poor and he’s a damn fast runner – he doesn’t understand himself, why he’s always so cold. His blood pressure is spectacular, his diet is perfect, his resting heart rate is thirty beats per minute, his Combat Fitness Test scores and Physical Fitness Test scores have always exceeded expectation – but he’s still cold. It makes no logical sense.

If he were a poet, he might think there’s a block of ice where his human heart is meant to be.

His home, if one can call it that, is run the same as the training camps he just graduated from; he sleeps in his fitted tank-top, dog-tags and boxer-briefs so that dressing in the morning only takes five minutes, tops.

He can jump out of his bed, make the sheets how they need to be for potential inspection, then comes the blouse, then the socks, then the boots – after that, he has an engrained, timed drill; a five minute head-call to use the bathroom, brush his teeth, shave if need be, put his hair in order and finish getting dressed.

So, he ties his boots properly, tightly, evenly, sees that they are shined; he buttons his blouse fully, strapping on his belt and tying off his boot bands. Once his hair is slicked back and out of his eyes, he grabs for his personalized blaster pistol and clips it onto his belt. He gave himself the gift of shaving the night before, so he takes some time off his morning routine and takes one good, tired look at himself before leaving his room.

He makes his way downstairs and stands at attention before the dining table while the Commandant stands across on the other side, never relaxed, but confident. Always an intimidating figure, no matter the lighting or setting.

“Prepare to seat.”

“Aye,” Ari answers.

“Ready.”

“Pain.”

“Move.”

“Kill,” Ari states back, finally sitting.

“Adjust.”

Planting his limbs where they’re expected to be, he chants (as he does dutifully before every meal) “left hand, left knee, right hand, right knee; back straight, mouth shut, eyes front, aye, Grand Admiral.”

“Acceptable, Officer. At ease,” the Commandant grants, sitting down with a sigh.

Ari eats carefully – he has no idea what the Commandant has in store for him for physical training this day, so he avoids the dairy and sticks to safe carbs. The Commandant is well known for putting out food that cannot actually be touched; things high in sugar or dairy or things that will intentionally dehydrate him.

His lean towards playing it safe, dietary-wise, turns out to be a keen judgment.

He starts the day in the indoor pool, doing laps until his eyes are stinging and his entire torso is expanding with his inhalations. Then he’s outside, being left to time himself for push-up’s, crunches, pull-up’s and toe-touches while the Commandant breaks for lunch.

It’s while he’s halfway through his plyometric pull-up routine that the Organa boy makes himself known. Not that he _knows_ he’s made himself known.

“What are you doing here?” Ari asks casually.

“How did you hear me?” – it’s almost funny, how offended and disbelieving the Organa boy sounds.

“I don’t need to hear you,” Ari replies, grunting with the effort he puts into not facing the boy on the wall, “I only need to sense you. My kinesthetic senses are sharp.”

“Well, then how did you know it was _me_?”

“Process of elimination,” Ari tells him simply, “I don’t know anyone else obnoxious or idiotic enough to try to sneak up on a First Order Infantry Officer while he’s training, who also lives close enough to do something so ill-advised.”

Ari doesn’t need to look up and over his shoulder at the Organa boy to know he’s grinning.

He doesn’t really understand why the boy is so entertained by him. He’s really not trying to be funny – he’s never been funny.

He has it on good authority that all and any ability to give joy or humor to another being has been long stripped from him.

“Why are you training during a weekend?”

“It’s cute that you think I ever exist in a state that is not-training. Why are you even here, Ren?”

“What?”

Ari pauses, letting his weight hang from the bar, his arms straining and his face hot, probably red. His hair is in his eyes a little and he dreads the Commandant coming outside to check on him and see it out of place.

“Ren. Your name.”

Ari knows he’s wrong, but he’s hungry and tired and cranky and really just fine with running with it. He’s found that misnaming people makes them feel small – if the Organa boy feels comfortable enough to spy on him while he’s training, perhaps being taken a notch down would be good for him anyway.

“ _Ben_ ,” Organa predictably corrects, “My name is Ben. Am I really so forgettable?”

As usual, Ari’s shot hits its mark and he keeps a good poker face.

“Hardly,” he says, bordering on sarcastic, but keeping his intonation unreadable, “I just must have made a conscious effort to try and erase all memory of interaction with you. Besides, it’s an awful name.”

“Well, gee, what a relief,” Ben jokes; he rolls his dark eyes so hard it nearly makes a noise, but then he gets solemn again, “That sort of intensely sucks, though, that you’re trained like this even at home. I guess you have the comforts of home instead of a camp, though, right? Are there any silver linings to that? Blessings to count?”

“Oh, Ren,” Ari sighs out, trying not to smirk at his intentional misnaming and bother he's probably causing Ben, “Blessings are lies constructed by the religious patriarchy so you misattribute the hard work of others. I count my non-horror inducing moments of meaningless universe. And if your question is still if there are any to count, they are few and far between.”

There’s a pause, then Ari switches which way his hands are facing and keeps pulling himself up.

“You sound like you must be a blast at parties,” Ben tells him.

“And you sound like you’re still here for some reason?”

“Just being neighborly,” Ben says with faux innocence and a grin in his voice – Ari finally gives in and checks over his shoulder to see Ben, looking cheeky and very punch-able, “So – what’s he like?”

“What is who like?”

“The Commandant.”

“She.”

“No – the Commandant.”

“Yes, I understand what you’re asking, _Ren_ ,” Ari stresses, “The Commandant of the First Order is my mother, a woman, someone equipped with ova and a uterus who also identifies as a woman and uses cisgendered pronouns. _She_ , my _mother_ , is the Commandant of the First Oder.”

There's a long, thoughtful pause and then;

“… _what_? Isn’t her name Brendol?”

“What?” Ari parrots, pausing in his efforts to quirk a brow at Ben, “Brendol was the name of my older brother. He was named in a masculine and more modern way, after my mother – Brenda.”

It appears that Ben has a hard time computing this new information.

“So, the Commandant of the First Order is your mother?”

“You’re really testing how much repetition I can tolerate, Ren. Yes, Grand Admiral Brenda Hux, a woman who is also my mother, is Commandant of the First Order. Will you be needing a graph?”

There’s another pause and then Ben seems to decide, “that’s a terrible name – and ancient too.”

Ari sneers a little and replies defensively, “not too dissimilar from _yours_ , you have much room to talk about ancient, ugly names,  _Benedict_?”

“Yikes. Point taken,” Ben surrenders, showing his palms, “I’m actually beginning to think I _prefer_ ‘Ren.’ Maybe I can keep that as a sort of nickname? Would you mind if I kept it?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because you’re the one that came up with it.”

Ari feels like slapping Ben.

“Oh my stars, this is absurd – it’s a _name_. If you like it, have it. I was just being dismissive of you so you’d go away.”

“So, you _didn’t_ really forget me,” Ben smiles.

Ari lets out some sort of disgusted, “ugh,” sound and then jumps down from the bars he’s been hanging from. He shakes his arms out, trying to improve blood flow and dim the ache he’s just set in them.

“So, now that I know better, what’s _she_ like?” Ben asks again.

Before Ari can answer, a sharp, demanding voice cuts through their interaction.

“Officer Hux!”

Ari’s body goes rigid and he turns quickly, at attention, to the Commandant who is fast approaching, long red hair bouncing across her shoulders and back.

“Grand Admiral,” Ari greets back.

“Who is this interloper?” she demands to know.

“Benedict Organa-Solo,” Ari answers carefully, keeping his eyes forward and shoulders straight, “The boy from school that I told you about.”

“Organa,” the Commandant mutters, looking Ben over with a special kind of scrutiny, “I’ve heard rumor that you’ve made efforts to befriend my son.”

“Yes, Grand Admiral, ma’am.”

At first, Ari is surprised to hear Ben keep his cool and respond so formally and correctly to his mother, but then he remembers what social climate Ben has been raised in. He’s the technical prince of Alderaan and the only son of the senator Leia Organa. He’s probably met his fair share of military personnel and knows how to handle himself well enough.

"Any luck?" she asks sarcastically.

"Not so far, but I'm pretty determined," Ben answers casually.

Ari feels his face heat up and he has to fight the urge to stare Heavenward to plead for patience with this idiot.

"Is there any reason I shouldn't kick you off my premises right now?"

"Well, I really only came over to show Hux something."

Ari feels the Commandant's gaze drift over him before she asks, "show him what?"

"Uhm - it's a little personal. Nothing important - I just didn't realize he'd be training over the weekend."

"Officer Hux doesn't _stop_ training, young Organa," the Commandant tells him, "but if you'd like to join him for the day, you can follow him while he finishes his P.T and show him whatever you'd like when he goes for his six mile run."

Ari is starting to feel nauseous. He fights the temptation to gauge Ben's response to that and desperately hopes Ben won't take the bait and join him for his Hellish run.

 

* * *

 

Ben's efforts to keep up with Hux seem futile. 

He can't ask the boy to slow down either, because he doesn't want Hux knowing how much he's struggling to breathe. Ben's body may look fit, but he's not necessarily in shape.

Hux appears to know, anyway.

"You can stop at any time, you know," Hux calls over his shoulder with ease as he rounds an empty street corner, "You're not actually being made to train. Not beholden to my mother."

Gasping, Ben follows a few feet behind and manages to yell back, "I can do it!"

"Never said you couldn't!" Hux calls back - although both of them knew damn well he was thinking it. 

Chandrila is warm and its midday star is burning bright and hot on Ben's overheated skin. There are bulabirds singing somewhere in the distance and he and Hux seem to be alone. This route was clearly mapped for its privacy, Ben realizes.

That and it's a perfect six mile round - three miles to the stopping point and three miles back.

Once they make it to the stopping point, Ben doubles over. He's gasping for air, his lungs, abs and legs are all burning and Hux is staring down at him with a cross of pity and humor. He walks casually into a local store nearby, grabs a gallon of water and takes a few sips from it before offering it to Ben without any preamble.

Ben doesn't even have the time to be alarmed by sharing a drink with Hux after only just properly meeting a few days prior; normally, he might read into a gesture like that, one so friendly and forward. He's desperate for something cold, though, and he, unthinkingly, grabs the gallon by its plastic handle and starts chugging away at it.

"Organa - you may not want to _inhale_ it."

Ben makes some indistinguishable noise from his chest that translates loosely to 'Hux, you may want to fuck off, how about,' and Hux shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest and watching with that demeaning pity/humor. 

Ben wouldn't be surprised if Hux had been knowingly counting down the seconds before he regurgitated nearly all the water he forced down.

"You didn't warn me that would happen," Ben huffs in aggravation, water spilled all over the sidewalk.

With little concern and absolutely no sympathy, Hux cocks a brow and argues, "I most certainly did."

" _No_ , you mumbled something sarcastic and let me chug away - you weren't saying 'hey, head's up, if you drink that fast, Ben, you'll throw it up.' Would've been nice to give a guy some warning."

"Oh, stars, stop complaining and pass me the water," Hux dismisses him, grabbing the gallon from him, "Any dunce would've been able to decipher my meaning."

"Well," Ben smirks playfully, "I'm not just _any_ dunce, you know."

Despite clearly wanting to, Hux fights the urge to smirk back at Ben and instead busies his mouth with the gallon. He sips at it slowly, his throat working and the shine of sweat over his flushed skin highlighting his bouncing jugular and the dips of his clavicle.

Ben wonders if he's meant to look like that at this age - or if Hux has just been training since the day he was born and so has a slim body of only muscle. He's still a lanky looking fellow, but he's fast - very fast - and stronger than he appears. Ben personally thinks Hux could kill a man with his silver tongue alone, but that's yet to be tested. He's very serpentine - in nature and stature, both.

Hux might feel Ben staring, because he stops drinking, inhales deeply, wipes at his full lips with the back of his forearm and asks, "so? What was it that you wanted to show me?"

"What?"

"You came to my house with something for show-and-tell?"

"Oh," Ben remembers, a bit embarrassed he'd become so distracted, "Yeah - we need to go somewhere else, though."

With a curt nod, Hux silently agrees to follow Ben and Ben escorts them to an open field near to another convenience store. Chandrila's star is burning bright,y midday, some clouds are dotting the sky, there's a very light breeze and it's a beautiful day, really. Ben wishes he weren't prickly with nerves and anxiety weren't giving him such chills - he'd be able to enjoy the fresh, seasonal weather otherwise. 

"So?" Hux asks impatiently.

" _Give me_ a minute," Ben insists, hands shaking, "I've been practicing non-stop since I last saw you, but I'm still not great at it. I need to focus."

Ben is holding out his right palm, centering his energy there, but his attention is very scattered.

Not so surprisingly, Officer Hux is drawing most of it. 

Ben frowns to himself.

"What?" Hux asks.

"I need... _something_ ," Ben answers vaguely, squinting his eyes, "Like a goal. I need something to put my energy towards. A thought or a feeling."

Usually meditation is enough, focusing on his hand and what he wants to bend space and time to do, but displaying powers of the Force for an audience doesn't really allow for that. Not for him, anyway. Apparently.

"Hmm," Hux hums thoughtfully, looking up and away, "Well, if nothing else is gained today, I know now to not invite you to the Academy. If you couldn't _stomach_ a three mile run, I highly doubt you'd even _survive_ one of the Death Marches." 

Ben turns his head to Hux and inquires, "did you say  _Death_ March?"

"Affirmative," Hux answers, "Nine miles uphill in full combat gear - all of that comes out to anywhere between one-hundred and one-hundred and twenty pounds of weight over the entire body and that's not including the ammo cans, camel-packs and backpacks full of clothing, gas masks, sleeping bags, extra boots, entrenching tools and other such fluff."

" _Stars_ \- how much do those _weigh_?" Ben asks without knowing fully if he truly wants to know the answer.

"Depends," Hux says casually, "Usually the ammo cans are the heaviest and they can come out to around forty pounds, but could go high as sixty."

Wide-eyed, Ben interviews disbelievingly, "so - the Death Marches - what were they like?"

"I could get a root canal in Hell, Ren, but it wouldn't be as lovely as a Death March," Hux sighs, tilting his weight onto one leg, cocking his hip, "Any Academy Officer should be able to complete a mile run in eight minutes or less. My personal average is seven minutes and twelve seconds. My sprinting times vary - sprinting a mile and a half, my best time was six minutes and fifty-three seconds. In any case, if we were to round up the average run time for the sake of other Officers with lesser C.F.T and P.F.T scores than I have, a Death March shouldn't take longer than ninety minutes uphill and ninety minutes downhill. We get into full gear, weighted armor and ammo packs and we run uphill for nine miles. Every mile or so, a superior would allow us to catch our breaths, but I found that to be a nuisance more than anything else - it prolonged the torture. I'd rather just run it and be done with it, but my opinion seemed to be an outlier. We would break for about ten minutes at the top of the rocky hill used by the Academy, we would drink our water, catch our breaths and then continue our return downhill."

Ben's brow furrows in concern and he asks, genuinely sympathetic (though Hux was, predictably, aloof and apathetic all the while telling his story), "didn't your mother help you at all? Not to get out of it or anything, but -"

Hux barks an unfeeling, cold laugh and replies with faux ease, " _Grand Admiral Hux_? _Helping_ me? That will be the day. No - there was only one Death March she saw appropriate to police for my platoon and on that day, when we returned to the barracks, she yelled to us all, 'feels good, doesn't it?' - now, I don't expect you to know this, but replying with anything but affirmatives will get you P.T'ed until you vomit. So, the platoon as a whole, replied, 'yes, Grand Admiral,' to which she exclaimed, 'you lot could do it all again, couldn't you?' - as if asking us, just for the joy of it, we could do it all again. We all replied with affirmatives and she said, 'perfect! Pick those bags up and let's move!'"

Ben's eyes rounded out like dinner plates, "no - stars, no, she didn't!"

Hux's smile is empty and vicious when he says, "yes, I'm afraid she did. It was impossible to see in the night, we did a lot of bumping into one another, but despite the darkness and exhaustion, she rounded us all up and let my platoon know that if their platoon leader - _I_ \- had not lagged so heavily on mile six - which I _hadn't_ \- then they'd all be in bed by now."

_She set him up to be alone..._ Ben realizes.

His resentment for the Commandant mounts.

"She didn't just abuse her power to torture you - she isolated you," Ben grumbles, "... on purpose."

"Nothing like a mother's love," Hux mutters sardonically. 

The night sky, the relief of being done with a Death March, the blisters forming in boots, the fatigue of every bone - Ben can just imagine it - the platoon putting down their bags, _Hux_ putting _his_ bags down, his ammo cans, his weighted armor, more than ready to put what he openly describes as 'torture,' behind him and climb into bed and then the Commandant. He can see her in his mind's eye, her hair likely tied up and back, tight, restrained and unpleasant like the rest of her narrow, pinched face.

He scowls at nothing, rage on Hux's behalf running through him like a hot flash - how _dare_ she - Hux is her _son_ \- does she have no pride? No honor? No family values? No love in her whatsoever? Ben's parents would _kill_ for a son as docile, cultured, well-spoken and behaved as Hux and she hurts him just because she can? She crunches him like a bug beneath her boot just to prove she can, just to -

"Stars! Ben! What in the Hells!?"

Snapped out of his hateful reverie, Ben's attention is snagged back to his fisted right hand. He spreads his white-knuckled fingers out, revealing the flame blossoming there, in his palm.

"What in the Hells did you -"

"Anger," Ben replies, knowing what Hux is about to ask without knowing _how_ precisely he knows that, "I'm angry for you. That she did that to you. That you've suffered."

When he says, 'suffered,' the flame sparks and grows higher and the both of them stumble back half a step. 

Ben's eyes are focused on the fire in his palm for a while, in a daze of wonderment - he's heard of ancient Sith Lords and Jedi Knights in legend that could create raw energy like he's just done, but he's never accomplished it before. When he's practiced this at home, it's always been with something flammable in hand, something to spark, some sort of catalyst. He'd get lost in his thoughts of what his parents haven't told him, but he eventually is able to feel Hux's eyes on him.

He turns to face Hux and Hux is looking wide-eyed at him, the sweaty flush gone from his face, "you've... learned to conjure... _fire_? From _nothing_?"

"It's not nothing," Ben responds assuredly, "The midi-chlorians sense my drive, my passion. I'd be lying if I told you I completely understood how midi-chlorians work, but that much I know. They make up the Force and the Force is all around us. The Force is all of space-time. It can be molded, in the right hands. The midi-chlorians feel my anger as I do because we are so one with each other. They don't bend to me - they bend _with_ me. If you're one enough with them, they're a reflection of your will. Usually, my anger... breaks things..."

He looks back at the flame and says with no small degree of awe, "I've never actually seen it _create_ something before..."

They both stare in shock at the fire for a while before Hux lets out a deep sigh and announces with faux aloofness, "well, I think I can certainly light a cigar with that."

Ben smiles at the casual banter, his focus faltering, and the flame dies.

"And you learned that? Just for me?"

Turning to face Hux fully, Ben smiles gladly at him, nodding.

"I felt so foolish the last time we met - you're so competent and I'm... I don't know how to do the most basic of things."

"I don't know that I'd categorize 'fire magic,' or 'spontaneous generation,' under Basic Learnings of anything, but go on."

Laughing awkwardly, Ben scratches at the back of his neck compulsively and replies, "it's basic, I think, for Force-users. My family doesn't really encourage my use of it, though, so I'm not well taught. I'm like... wired wrong, or something. I always wind up breaking stuff or things explode when my emotions get out of check. I'm sort of... the family screw-up, that way. They were all really glad I was born Force-sensitive until they realized I couldn't just miraculously sharpen it like a deadly weapon and most of them have declined teaching me what they know." 

"That's - garbage."

Ben's brows spring up in surprise at the vitriol in Hux's voice.

"Sorry?"

"Garbage! Seriously!" Hux insists, his hands tightening around either side of his narrow waist, "That's ridiculous! No great skill is just granted! What do they expect you to do?"

"Wallow in self-pity, I suppose," Ben guesses half-jokingly with a hollow laugh, "I'm rather good at that bit."

Hux glowers at him to show how amused he is by Ben's self-deprecation. 

"What you just showed me is incredible," Hux states resolutely, "If they can't see that, then they're blind, sorry fools."

Blushing, Ben shrugs and shares, "I haven't been entirely on my own, I guess. Every once in a while, someone teaches me _something_. My Uncle Luke has been the most helpful, but my mother argues with him over it a lot. She doesn't want him to be my Master - I don't think she wants me to be trained at all."

Before he knows what's happening, Hux is shoving him in the chest, nearly knocking him over. He looks at Hux in surprise and Hux is looking back at him, stern and almost intimidating when he recites to Ben, "fear no evil, suffer no demons, bow to no master."

"What?"

He pushes Ben again, knocking the air out of him, "you heard me! Say it back! Fear no evil, suffer no demons, bow to no master!"

"Hux, I don't understand -"

"Fear no evil!"

Ben blinks a few times, sees the hot fire in Hux's eyes and succumbs to it.

"Fear no evil..."

"Louder, cadet!"

Ben's blush darkens and spreads up to his ears.

"Fear no evil!"

"Suffer no demons!" Hux demands.

"Suffer no demons!" Ben replies.

"Bow to no master!"

He wants to explain that having a Master is an honor in the realm of the Jedi, like his uncle, but Hux's expression leaves no room for negotiation. In Ben's hesitation, Hux reaches out and grabs his shoulder with a tight, willing hand.

"Bow to no master."

"I..."

"Bow to no master," Hux repeats meaningfully.

After a beat, Ben answers, "bow to no master."

The smile Hux awards him is worth how strange it feels to chant these things. Hux is smiling, though, as if he's proud - like Ben just made some enormous, emotional breakthrough. 

"Let's finish this run, Ben," Hux suggests to him, "And when we get back to my house, stay for dinner."

Unable to respond verbally, Ben simply nods and Hux nods back, turning back toward the final mile-marker. He calls over his shoulder, "this time, repeat after me, as we run, okay?"

"Okay," Ben agrees quietly.

They keep to a militant cadence the entire way back and Hux chants in time, encouraging and loud until Ben is reciting in time with him, "fear no evil, suffer no demons, bow to no master - be the spell and its caster! Devour from beneath, eat your kings, kill your Gods - it's for you they sing! Let them hate, so long as they fear, death waits for no man  - there's no safety here! We are the song! We are the spell! We are the strong! It's us that sound the bell! We are the legend and the human, folly! We are the pariahs, we are the Godly! We are the honest man and the liar! We are the Earth, the Water, Air and Fire!"

By the time they've made it back to Hux's house (and Ben can drink some cold water _slowly_ ), he's got it memorized. He's permitted to shower there, after Hux gets out and he's a little astonished that Hux remains in uniform for the evening; he theorizes that Hux is only allowed to be in varying uniforms, even at home. He doesn't ask, though. Seems indelicate.

They eat a prepared dinner, the Commandant is absent through it all, but Ben tries to not call attention to that either. It doesn't feel like Hux wants to talk about it, so Ben doesn't pry. 

When he's parting ways with Hux to walk back home, Hux comments something about Ben being grateful that he doesn't have to do all 'that P.T everyday,' and Ben agrees.

His agreement that the P.T was horrible is probably what throws Hux off, when the next morning, Ben is scaling the wall, in loose clothes and running shoes, ready to train.

"You... don't have to do this, Ben," Hux tells him unnecessarily.

Ben smiles flirtatiously at Hux and replies simply, "I know I don't have to. I'm never anywhere I don't wanna be. And that's _Ren_ , now."

The way Hux's wide eyes shimmer and then dart away at that makes all the muscle cramps worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melanie, the Commandant is his MOTHER???  
> Yes!! Did none of you notice that I didn't gender the Commandant at any point? lol
> 
> Melanie, will we get to know her???  
> More than you'll want to, yes!
> 
> Melanie, will we get to know what happened to Brendol???  
> Yes! Later!


End file.
